


Hot Air Balloon Time Machine

by mistyzeo



Category: Actor RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: The hot guy at Genevieve's masquerade party has a lousy costume, but Jared goes home with him all the same. He doesn't expect to wake up in the morning in 1891 at a magical marketplace full of oddities, but that's the way things go sometimes.Art Masterpost





	

Jared's only at this weirdo costume party because Genevieve insisted that he show up, and he's learned over time that it's better to not ignore her when she starts making demands.  It's only taken ten years of friendship, but he's getting the hang of it. Gen's lady-BFFL Danneel is turning thirty, and Gen's determined to throw her the best party ever.  Danneel admitted under duress that no one had ever thrown her a surprise party, and separately that she'd always wanted to hold a masquerade, so Gen planned both.  
  
Now Jared's wearing a giant cardboard box that makes him look like an oversized die with a mask on, and he's had three nerve-steadying drinks to get him through the evening.  
  
So far, so good.  He's even managed to dance a little, although the box eliminates the possibility that he'll have any dance partners at all, let alone hot ones.  He's way too bulky. The upside is he can set his drink on the edge of the box by his shoulder if he needs a free hand to, say, eat pigs in a blanket dipped in mustard.  
  
Genevieve looks totally smokin'.  She's wearing a cat costume, which is slang for a bodysuit that shows off her every asset with shocking clarity, topped off with cat ears for show.  The black velour suits her petite form perfectly, and if Jared slept with ladies he would be on that like white on rice.  But he doesn't, so he's not.  Instead, he's staring at the guy she's chatting with, the one dressed like a boring pirate.  His costume sucks, like he put it together at the last minute from his mom's closet, but the man hidden under the thrift-store pants and ren-faire shirt is someone Jared does not want to miss, even if all he gets to do is look.  
  
Gen catches him looking.  She smirks, her silly cat ears tipping his direction, and she waves him over.  
  
"Jared," she says, "hey.  This is Jensen.  Jensen, this is my friend from college, Jared."  
  
"Hi," Jared says, holding out a hand.  He has to hold it kind of off to the side because of the box he's wearing.  
  
Jensen looks like he's fighting a look of either extreme displeasure or amusement, but Jared forgives the awkward expression because he's even hotter close up even when he's pursing his lips and squinting his eyes like that.  Jensen shakes his hand and relaxes, clearly having mastered his face.  
  
"Nice to meet you."  
  
"How do you know Gen?" Jared asks, and realizes she's dematerialized in the seconds they've been standing there.  She knows what's up.  Sneaky.  
  
"I just met her," Jensen says.  "I'm friends with Misha."  
  
Misha is some friend of Danneel's that Jared doesn't really understand.  He's kind of amusing, in the way that videos of cars slipping on snow are amusing: a little painful and embarrassing, and you're glad you're not those drivers, but you could watch them all day if you had nothing else going on.  He's got a lot of energy and not enough direction, so he makes plaster casts of his fists and throws them at people on the street, and then goes home for a little chainsaw art.  Jared figures he smoked too much in college and is still high five years later.  
  
"Oh," he says.  "That's great.  Are you from around here?"  
  
"I grew up in Dallas, actually," Jensen says, which makes him fifteen times more interesting all of a sudden, as well as hot, "but I travel a lot these days."  
  
"Dude, that's awesome," Jared says.  "My parents live in San Antonio."  
  
Jensen lights up.  "Really?  That make you a Spurs fan?"  
  
They get to arguing about sports, and Jared starts to feel better about the whole wearing-a-box thing. Jensen is funny, and his laugh makes Jared laugh, and his eyes sparkle in the flashing lights of the dark room. He moves closer and closer, eyeing the box, and finally Jared says, "Stay here a second."  
  
He pushes his way through the crowd, away from Jensen, and finds a dark corner. He struggles his way out of the box and abandons it there. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt underneath, not terribly exciting, but at least he can move his arms.  
  
Jensen is waiting right where Jared left him, contemplating a fresh drink in each hand.  
  
"Double fisting?" Jared asks.  
  
"Don't be crude," Jensen says, handing one over. "So now that you're free of your confines, may I request a place on your dance card?"  
  
"Really playing into that costume, huh," Jared says. He accepts the drink and takes a sip. Shit is _strong._ He gives Jensen an admiring look. "Yeah, I think I can be enticed."  
  
Jensen bites his lip, all coy now, and turns towards the dance floor. Jared follows him, reaching with one hand to catch the narrow curve of Jensen's hip. He's just keeping track of him, Jared tells himself, but Jensen's glance of his shoulder tells him he's not convincing anyone. As he goes to slide the hand away however, Jensen covers it with his own and slips their finger together, and Jared decides, perhaps prematurely but with a sense of extreme self-satisfaction, that he is so in.  
  
The music is loud at this end of the party, filling up Jared's head and vibrating under his skin. Jensen's ass looks better than expected in the thrift store pirate pants, and Jared takes the invitation to step up close behind him, get his other hand on Jensen's body as well, and nudge him into a carefully calculated, just polite enough, grind to the beat.  
  
Jensen rolls with it easily, spreading his feet apart and dropping his head. The back of his neck is pale and smooth and just the right height for Jared to nip, but he keeps himself in check. Jared is a gentleman, Jensen is something of a stranger, and he doesn't need to come off as a neck-biting creeper. Instead he presses his cheek to the side of Jensen's neck where it's warm and he can put his chin on Jensen's shoulder, and he feels Jensen smile.  
  
The mask has to come off soon. The dance floor is packed with people and Jared is sweating like some kind of disgusting sweaty thing, which he is. His mask was too small to begin with, and he wasn't enjoying his full range of vision through the little eye holes, and now he's making it damp at the temples and the forehead because of the heat— not sexy. The way their bodies are moving together, the way Jensen is following his lead, the way Jensen is holding Jared's hands in place on his abdomen and thigh— very sexy. Jared would like to turn up the 'very sexy' and eliminate some of the 'not so much.'  
  
Jensen turns, as if he's read Jared's mind. His thigh fits neatly between Jared's legs, firm against the undeniable interest there, and Jensen winks at him. He reaches for Jared's mask, slides it off Jared's head with two fingers, and tucks it into the back pocket of Jared's jeans. Then he's sliding a hand around the back of Jared's neck and pulling him close. Dude is _smooth._  
  
He also kisses like he's got an eon of experience, and Jared's caught between melting into it like warm butter and feeling incredibly jealous of everyone else who's ever kissed this man. Jensen coaxes Jared's mouth open gently, asking permission, and once he has Jared convinced he seduces him with a slow roll of his tongue against Jared's, a sneaky little bite to his lower lip, and the pressure of his fingers on the back of Jared's neck. Jensen slides his other hand under the hem of Jared's t-shirt, settling his warm palm on Jared's side, and squeezes.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Jensen kisses him until he's panting for it, the slow, wet drag of their mouths making Jared's pulse pound. He presses their bodies together and Jared can feel the firm line of Jensen's cock against his hip. He could take Jensen home right now. Hell, he could probably take Jensen into the men's room right now, but he'd wants to get him naked. He wants to lay Jensen out on his sheets and lick every inch of his body. He wants to fuck and be fucked, and he's in the middle of deciding which he'd prefer first when Jensen gives him one last bite and pulls away.  
  
"This is pretty forward," he says, leaning in until his lips touch the shell of Jared's ear, "but do you wanna get out of here?"  
  
"Yes," Jared says, relieved and turned on and so god damn lucky. Gen will probably scold him for leaving early, but she's the one that introduced them. He'll send her a text.  
  
Jensen tucks his hand into the front of Jared's pants, gripping his belt buckle with obvious determination, and drags him off the dance floor. Jared pats his pockets for his wallet and keys, just in case, and lets himself be pulled towards the door.  
  
Gen catches them on the way out, Jensen in charge and Jared along for the ride, and she just shakes her head. Jared decides he's drunk enough not to care and gives her a cheeky salute as they pass.  
  
Once outside in the cool March air, Jared realizes he's also too drunk to drive. They'll have to take a cab back to his place, and he has to check if he has cash for the fare.  
  
"Don't worry about it," Jensen says, sliding an arm around his waist, "I'm staying really close by; you wanna take it to my place?"  
  
"Yes," Jared says.  
  
"Walking distance," Jensen promises.  
  
Jensen is a warm, comfortably presence tucked under Jared's arm, and he leads Jared towards the end of the block. They cross a mall parking lot, the shops all dark and closed up for the night, and Jared has a craving for a Starbucks muffin.  
  
"Here," Jensen says, leading Jared towards a phone booth on the edge of the lot, sitting unobtrusively among the young trees.   
  
"Wait, do we need to call a cab?" Jared asks, and then the next thing he knows he's being tugged into the front door of a small studio apartment: kitchenette on the left, living room set on the right, bed and dresser ahead of him.  
  
"You good?" Jensen asks, looking up into his face, and Jared nods. He's fine. He's a little unsteady, and he might need more than coffee and a gallon of water in the morning, but he's okay. And he's still half-hard, which means he's not going to disappoint. Awesome. This party of Gen's turned out better than he expected.  
  


+++

  
  
When Jensen wakes up, the balloon is quiet and still. The bed beside him is empty, and Jared's clothes are gone. Jensen sits up carefully, looking around. Hook-ups aren't easy when you're a time traveler— there's always the awkward negotiation of local and temporal good-bye expectations, empty promises to call or brusque refusals on the grounds of being a bad boy, deciding whether or not to offer the guest a shower— but this one seems to have made the decisions on his own and left Jensen behind.  
  
Fantastic. Jensen has a rendezvous to make in 1891 and he can't be late. The balloon is low on sand, and the sand is the only thing that lets it move through time as well as the air. His distributor is a shady guy in a bowler hat with a mechanical arm, but at least his sand is pure.  
  
Jensen picks up his pants from the floor and pulls them on, and then steps into his boots and tugs on a clean shirt. He rubs his hand over his two days of beard, decides he'll look appropriately rugged when he makes an appearance at the market, and stretches his arms over his head until his back pops. He'll need a few more details added to his outfit to make himself really fit in. He finds his vest on the floor and buttons it up. One of the buttons is loose. Shoot. Jared yanked it off him pretty efficiently last night, and now Jensen's paying for the enthusiasm. He'll sew it up tighter later.  
  
He bounds up the spiral stairs from the living space below— bigger on the inside— to the small cockpit above. The air balloon is parked unobtrusively on the edge of the mall parking lot: across the way Jensen can see the department store doors opening and closing as people go in and out, the Starbucks beside it, and the little bookstore on the corner Jensen would like to explore if he had some more time.   
  
"Morning sunshine," he tells it, out of habit, as the balloon's controls warm up. She's a little slow this morning, which means he's really low on time sand. Excellent timing. Jensen watches her leisurely power up, counts the lights on the control panel as they come on, and curls his hands around the warm wood of the steering wheel. This is his favorite part of the day, when he gets a gentle, satisfying reminder of how goddamn awesome his job is. He travels through _time._  
  
Jensen thumbs the date buttons beside the steering wheel, scrolling through until he reaches 1891. It takes a while, because he hasn't modified it to go by tens or hundreds, so he has to lean on the down button to get there. His stomach is growling. 1891 has a questionable idea of breakfast; maybe he should stop and grab something before he goes.  
  
Never mind. Time waits for no man. He finds the year and moves on to find the right month, and then day, flipping through until he reaches September 24th. Finally he can engage the lever that begins the process of transporting the balloon through time.  
  
The downstairs door bangs open and closed, and Jensen turns sharply at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.  
  
"Hey!" Jared's head pops up above the level of the floor as Jensen stares in disbelief. "I thought you might be up here! This is neat!"  
  
"Jared," Jensen says, "what are you doing here?"  
  
Jared slows down as he reaches the top of the steps. He's carrying a paper coffee cup in each hand and has a brown paper bag dangling from one pinkie. "Ohh," he says, "wow. Sorry. I just thought— okay, sorry. I woke up and was dying for a cappuccino, and the Starbucks was so close— okay, I should just go."  
  
Jensen glances nervously at the progress bar. The balloon is ready to lift off the ground, and he can't stop the process now. "Uh, actually you can't."  
  
The look Jared gives him is an incredible combination of disbelief and intrigue. "I can't?"  
  
"Remember when I said I had a time traveling air balloon?"  
  
"Yes," Jared says, leering.  
  
"I wasn't lying." Jensen has to stop using that as a pick-up line, seriously.  
  
The disbelieving/intrigued look comes back. "Do tell."  
  
"That's pretty much it. This is a hot air balloon, and it travels through time."  
  
Jared's eyes narrow. "So why can't I leave?"  
  
"Because the transistor is already activated and the balloon is about to depart."  
  
Jared pauses briefly, appearing to consider this, and then smiles. "Awesome." He holds out one of the two cups of coffee. Jensen takes it hesitantly, worried that Jared will snatch it back or throw it on something to get back at Jensen for not explaining himself. It smells amazing. He takes a careful sip, keeping his eyes on Jared, and when Jared's smile widens he allows himself to relax.  
  
"Onward and upward," he says, turning back to the control panel, coffee in hand. He disengages one of the remaining sandbags and gives the balloon a little extra heat. She gives a little jolt as she begins to lift, and beside him Jared stumbles. "Careful," Jensen warns.  
  
"Dude," Jared exclaims, peering over the control panel (and not touching it, like a good guest) out the glass windows as the balloon rises off the ground, "this is awesome! How does it go through time, too?"  
  
"It's complicated," Jensen says. He's staring at the altimeter, watching the dial go around. "There's sand involved."  
  
"Huh," Jared says. "Okay." Jensen hears him take a sip of his coffee and rustle the brown paper bag. The cockpit smells like blueberry muffins, all of a sudden. "You want some of this?"  
  
Jensen risks a glance and finds Jared hopefully offering him half a muffin.  
  
"Yes," he says, grinning, "in a minute. Just gotta hit three thousand feet."  
  
The ground is falling away beneath them, and Jensen can see the shimmering that also tells him that time is slipping away just as quickly. The dial beside the altimeter is also starting to turn, counting down years.  
  
Jensen accepts the muffin. It crumbles satisfyingly in his mouth, and he moans. He was hungrier than he thought.  
  
Jared laughs. "You glad I came back after all?"  
  
"Well," Jensen hedges, cramming more muffin into his cheeks, "it's just that I don't get a lot of passengers on my flights."  
  
"Hm," Jared says. The railing of the staircase squeaks in protest as he leans on it. "How long have you been doing this?"  
  
Jensen looks away from the controls. He can leave the balloon to do its thing for a while now. They've reached the best altitude for flight and he just needs to keep an eye on the heat source. The coffee cup is warm in his hands, heat seeping around the cardboard sleeve, and he takes a slow breath in over the little vent. Coffee is a godsend.  
  
"Long time, I guess," he says finally. "It's kind of hard to say, what with the time traveling thing."  
  
Jared frowns. "But you look…"  
  
"Normal?"  
  
"I'd say above average, but yeah."  
  
"I stop by my parents' place every year for my birthday," Jensen says, shrugging. "But it's not really— I think I've had about thirty."  
  
"Birthdays?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Why your parents?"  
  
"They're just always expecting me."  
  
Jared gets a soft look on his face, the corners of his mouth turning up in a gentler smile than the ones that Jensen's seen already. "That's a good anchor."  
  
Jensen swallows hard. "Yeah. It is." He tries not to think of the time he showed up for a birthday about twenty years late and discovered that his parents' house was occupied by a young couple of newlyweds. They had bought the place when the previous owners had died. Jensen had stared at the young wife in shock until she had closed the door in his face, unnerved. He got back into the balloon and couldn't help seeing the year. He knew exactly when his parents would be gone. It was a benefit, as a time traveler, to be able to visit them _literally_ whenever he wanted, but now that he knew every time he went home felt a little strange.  
  
Jared touches his arm, frowning, and Jensen shakes himself. "Sorry."  
  
"Lost you there for a second," Jared says.  
  
Jensen's smile feels forced. He shouldn't have brought Jared along. This is a great life, and he loves what he does, but he knows it's not for everyone. Jared doesn't know what he's gotten into, and it's Jensen's fault for being so careless.  
  
"So," Jared says, obviously changing the subject for both their sakes, "where are we going?"  
  
"London," Jensen says, "1891."  
  
"I can't decide which of those surprises me more," Jared says. "Can you really cross the Atlantic in a balloon?"  
  
"Oh yeah, even in an ordinary balloon," Jensen says, sliding his fingers around the steering wheel again. "You need a really big envelope. But the nature of the time travel is the rotation of the earth. We can go anywhere in the world because of the way it spins."  
  
"Is that true?"  
  
"No, I made that up," Jensen says. "I don't know how it works, I just know that it does."  
  
Jared looks suitably impressed, finally. The time-travel thing might have gotten to him after all.  
  
"Do you have anything less…" Jensen pauses, glancing down at Jared's longhorns t-shirt and bluejeans, both slightly rumpled from their night on Jensen's floor. "2011?"  
  
Jared frowns down at his clothes. "Only the costume," he says.  
  
"So no," Jensen says. "All right, I'll find you something to wear so you don't stand out."  
  
"You're taking me with you?"  
  
"I'm sure as hell not leaving you alone in the balloon."  
  


[ ](http://ordinaryink.livejournal.com/38268.html)

  
  


+++

  
  
The balloon lands with a soft thump on the gravel, dragging slightly, and Jensen lets go of the vents. "Land ho."  
  
"Your stuff's kind of tight," Jared complains, tugging at the shirt Jensen gave him. The sleeves are long enough unrolled, but the buttons are straining and the fabric is taut around Jared's biceps.  
  
Jensen blinks, and then visibly swallows. Jared fights a grin. Tight, but not unattractive.  
  
"You might have to stick to your own jeans," Jensen says hoarsely, and looks away. "Right. That'll be fine. This probably isn't the same year you're expecting— I get the impression that things are a little eccentric."  
  
Jared wraps a scarf around his neck and follows Jensen down the stairs, through the living space, and out the front door. Jensen locks it behind them, and Jared stares open-mouthed at the tiny structure that's left. It's a closed silver box, no larger than a telephone booth, and it appears to have a helium balloon tied to the top. He recognizes it from what he thought was a hallucination followed by a blackout the night before, and decides maybe he is allowed to drink again ever, after all. He wasn't as hungover this morning as he'd expected to be, and this is why.  
  
"Huh," he says to himself.  
  
Jensen smirks. "Come on, then," he says, tucking the key away in his pocket, "can't keep the man waiting."  
  
Jared follows him away from the balloon… phone booth… thing, and across what might be recognized as a parking lot, packed full of strange vehicles Jared has never seen. The balloon phone booth is positively demure among the hulking wooden ships covered in gold plating and glitter, just sitting in the gravel like they haven't ever needed to touch the ocean, or the prim little silver cabins with nets full of bulging nylon on top. Jensen points them out as zeppelins, and calls them showy.  
  
"So a hot air balloon isn't showy?" Jared asks.  
  
"It's a grower," Jensen tells him, deadpan.  
  
Jared tries very hard not to blush.  
  
They pass elaborate motorcycles with high glass windscreens and steam engines on the backs, and open topped cars that Jared knows he ought to recognize from Model T advertisements from 1908. But here they are, almost twenty years earlier, and modified for a much hipper crowd.  
  
Jensen has to physically drag him away from one that has a miniature church organ sticking out the back.  
  
"You're staring," he says.  
  
"Duh," Jared says, "this is fucking nuts. Where are we?"  
  
"It's called Smith's," Jensen says. "It shows up kind of randomly in space and time, and you can't miss a single one otherwise you'll never find out where the next one is."  
  
"And what are we doing here?"  
  
"I need sand."  
  
"Oh, of course." Jared has to squeeze between groups of people now, ducking underneath huge parasols and around shrieking children on leashes and between men in monocles haggling over the price of reinforced steel.  
  
"Smith's is kind of a mediocre name," Jensen muses, "but it keeps out the riffraff. You don't come to Smith's unless you mean to come to Smith's."  
  
"And you have a magical contraption that can bring you there," Jared says.  
  
Jensen shoots him a grin over his shoulder. "Well. It helps."  
  
The market place opens up into rows and rows of multicolored tents, their flags fluttering and their banners rippling in the slight breeze. It's colder than Jared expected it to be, and he tucks his chin down into the scarf Jensen loaned him. Yesterday it was March and today it's September, and somehow Jared isn't all that upset about it. He wonders how he'd deal with the turning of the seasons if he never saw them in order. California doesn't really have seasons, maybe Jensen doesn't either.  
  
Every tent is filled with oddities, more and more things that Jared has never imagined. One stall is filled entirely with gigantic pocket watches, big enough to command the attention in a room with chains the size of Jared's forearm. Another one is stocked with miniature robots, no higher than Jared's knee, all whirring and steaming and staring at him with their big golden eyes. Jensen walks right past them, counting stalls and muttering to himself, and doesn't give any of the novelties a second glance.  
  
Jared gets distracted by a stall full of wicker cages that contain hundreds of multicolored birds, all of them chattering together as if they're holding conversations. The man standing in the center of the stall catches him pausing and says, "Good morning sir! Looking for a little companionship on those long ventures at night? Chatty Birds are great for avoiding the tragedy of falling asleep at the wheel."  
  


[ ](http://ordinaryink.livejournal.com/38268.html)

  
  
"Chatty Birds?" Jared says.  
  
"That's right sir," the man says, and opens one of the cages. A little blue bird with gold plumage hops onto his finger and rides it out, and when it catches sight of Jared it cocks its tiny head and peers at him through its shining black eye.  
  
"Stranger?" the bird says. "Not from around here. Come a long way, have you?"  
  
"Gyah," Jared says, jumping back.  
  
"Bit surprised," the bird says, sounding offended. "Never seen a Chatty Bird before?"  
  
"No," Jared says. "Birds don't talk."  
  
"They're clockwork," the man explains, stroking the bird's back, "specially designed to react to prolonged periods of silence."  
  
"Can I touch it?" Jared asks, reaching out. The bird ducks its head and Jared's fingers touch what feels very much like warm feathers covering a tiny bird skull.  
  
Jensen appears at his elbow, looking perplexed. "Dude, appointment."  
  
"Sorry," Jared says, "clockwork birds!"  
  
"When you own an airship of your own, you can have a clockwork bird," Jensen says. "We gotta go."  
  
"Thanks anyway," Jared says to the man, whose top hat bobs as he bows to Jared.  
  
"Another time, sir. When you own your own airship."  
  
Jensen rolls his eyes and takes Jared by the hand, which Jared allows only because he is clearly destined to be lost in this labyrinth of weird stuff. They pass a stall full of leather bound books marked _SALE: £500 used manuals._  
  
"Manuals for what?" Jared asks, pointing backwards.  
  
"Time machines," Jensen says. "Come on."  
  
"Like yours?" Jared grips Jensen's hand harder to keep them from slipping apart. Jensen's hand is warm and dry, and his fingers are strong.  
  
"Not really, more like the stationary, shoot-you-through-the-continuum variety."  
  
"How do you get back?" Jared asks.  
  
"Very carefully. Ah, here we are." Jensen drops his hand, and Jared rubs his thumb across the underside of his fingers.  
  
In front of them is a tent, not a mere stall, with a curtain pulled back by a gold brocade rope. The inside is dim, the dark color of the tent itself blocking the sunlight, and Jared falls in behind Jensen as Jensen steps inside. The air under the tent is cooler as well, and the noise of the marketplace fades to a dull roar.  
  
"Ackles," a voice says out of the dimness, and a man in a bowler hat materializes under a sliver of sunlight, "you're late."  
  
"Your watch is fast," Jensen says, sounding suddenly bored, and Jared knows a bluff when he hears one. "If anything, I'm a minute early."  
  
The man seems to ignore Jensen's smarm. "I thought you wanted first pick of the sand bags."  
  
"I'll take what's here," Jensen says. "I'm sure your other customers won't want to be kept waiting."  
  
Jared risks a look behind him. There wasn't even a line outside, and the tent is empty. Jensen is the only customer.  
  
The man snorts, and takes a step forwards. He reaches out with an unusually large arm and grips Jensen's shoulder. Jensen stands firm. Jared gets a brief look at the silver, mechanical fingers that are pressing into Jensen's arm with what appears to be considerable force, and then Jensen is being pulled deeper into the tent. Jared follows.  
  
"Who's the pup?" the man asks.  
  
"My new partner," Jensen says.  
  
"Thought you were too good for a partner."  
  
"I'm getting soft in my old age," Jensen says dryly. "He followed me home."  
  
The man's laugh is grating, and Jared feels just a little bit insulted. He's not Jensen's _pet_ , he's just a tourist. Also Jensen enticed him home with the promise (and delivery) of a blowjob and a rather spectacular fuck, so Jared's not so much to blame for this situation.  
  
The man leads them to the back of the tent, which seems unnecessarily large at this point, to a pile of sandbags that looks like those World War II protective lines. It's also unnecessarily dark in here, Jared thinks, until Jensen bends to untie the top of one and the sand inside glows white.  
  
"This is good stuff," Jensen says, holding the neck of the bag carefully so that the sand doesn't spill onto the dirt floor. He reaches into the bag and sifts his fingers through it, and then touches his fingers to his lips. "Pure."  
  
"Are you sure this is sand?" Jared asks suddenly.  
  
Jensen glares at him. "It's not beach sand, if that's what you're asking."  
  
"You sound like you're talking about heroin. You just _tasted_ it."  
  
Jensen snorts a laugh and shakes his head. The man with the mechanical arm looks between them, baffled. "No, it's not drugs. Don't worry about that. I'll explain later." To the man, he says, "I'll take twenty bags, but I'll be the judge of which ones."  
  
"Fine," the man says. "Your puppy going to help you carry it all back?"  
  
Jensen's sneer would freeze water. "My partner and I will have it delivered."  
  
"It'll cost you extra," the man says.  
  
"Not by you. Jared, tie this closed."  
  
Jared obeys, even though Jensen omitted the magic word, because he's given Jensen enough sass in front of this guy for probably a lifetime. He wonders if the mechanical arm can shoot things out of it. That would be the only reason Jared ever got one.  
  
One by one, Jensen unties the bags, prods and tastes the sand inside, and confirms his purchase. A few of them make him squint and grimace, and he skips those. It takes them almost an hour, and by the end Jared's back is aching from bending to tie and untie the bags. When Jensen finally gives him a little smile of thanks he straightens up gratefully, stifling a groan. Jensen and the man with the mechanical arm exchange slips of paper— money, receipts, promissory notes, Jared doesn't know— and then Jensen leads him back out into the sunlight.  
  
"One more stop," Jensen says. "This guy owes me a favor, I'll get his crew to move the bags."  
  


+++

  
  
The guy who owes Jensen a favor has a tent on the other end of the market, and this time Jensen lets Jared wander. He does a little strolling himself, looking at trinkets and peculiar animals and add-ons he might want for his balloon. There's a newer version of the cloaking decide he uses for sale in one stall, and he picks it up and ponders the package for a while. His version is perfectly good, although the balloon tied to the top of the phone booth is a little obvious. It's not like people are ever looking for a hot air balloon ever, anyway. He puts the box back.  
  
"Jensen!" Jared shouts from behind him. "Dude, did you see these?"  
  
Jensen turns around to find Jared pointing gleefully at a wicker cage with a tiny giraffe in it. The giraffe is reaching its long neck out of the cage and licking Jared's outstretched finger with its outrageous miniature tongue.  
  
"You can't have one," Jensen tells him, thinking of the space they'll have to share in the balloon and how disastrous that would be with any sort of pet, a mini giraffe notwithstanding.  
  
Jared laughs. "Come on!" he cries, "you never let me do anything fun."  
  
Jensen raise both eyebrows at him.  
  
"Fair point," Jared says. He pats the giraffe on the head gently, like one would a cat, and rubs its little ears. "Sorry buddy, Jensen's a real task master."  
  
Jensen rolls his eyes and turns away. Jared bounds up beside him and tucks his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders.  
  
"This is great," he says.  
  
"It's never dull," Jensen agrees.  
  


+++

  
  
Sebastian is not as happy to see Jensen as Jensen thinks he ought to be, and he glowers darkly when Jensen saunters up, standing up from his position behind his desk. His is a glorified moving company, hauling heavy and delicate item from one end of the temporosphere to the end. What Jensen wants is fairly undemanding, considering his usual business. Jensen helped him move a particularly valuable Indian elephant from 1625 to 1903 to show in a circus, where it would be better appreciated. Jensen's pilot's license extends to more than just the balloon, and he was the only one with the qualifications available at short notice to fly the time-helicopter over quite so extended a distance and time period. Sebastian doesn't like that Jensen had to be the one, someone he doesn't even employ, and that he waived off payment for a favor.  
  
"Ackles," he says, giving Jensen a tight nod. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Ah, Sebastian," Jensen says, smirking deliberately and leaning his hip against the weight-bearing pole of the tent. "Minding my own business. What about yourself?"  
  
"Minding everyone else's," Seb says, scowling and putting a handful of papers away into a leather satchel. "Is there something you needed?"  
  
"I need a few of your boys to help me do a little lift and carry."  
  
"Not the sand again."  
  
"Afraid so," Jensen says. "Damn thing keeps using it up."  
  
Seb gives a deep, dramatic sigh and sticks two fingers into his mouth. He lets out a piercing whistle, and two brutes appear as if out of nowhere.  
  
"Ackles needs his sand moved," Seb tells them, pointing. "You get a tip if you get it done in an hour. Take whoever you need with you. How much sand, Ackles?"  
  
"Twenty bags," Jensen says smugly.  
  
"Christ. Oy, boys, take the wagon. Are you sure this'll settle us for the elephant?"  
  
Jensen thinks it over. The sand will take them an hour, less if they take the wagon to move it. They can probably do it in one trip. He should get back to the balloon to see that it gets loaded properly. "Halfway settled," he decides. "One more use of your lads when I need something small, and we'll be even."  
  
"Fine," Seb says. "Now get the hell outta here."  
  
"He was kind of a jerk," Jared says as they walk away. "What's his deal? What about an elephant?"  
  
"I helped him move an elephant almost four hundred years," Jensen says. "Don't worry about it. We should get back to the balloon."  
  
"So what's with the sand?" Jared asks, falling into step with him. "Magic time traveling sand or something?"  
  
"Exactly. Used to be— well, depends on the model, I suppose, and the year you buy your balloon— the sandbags were used as ballast, to let out when a pilot wanted to gain some altitude. This stuff was discovered in 3045 to be literally the Sand of Time, and it's what powers anything that moves back and forth like that."  
  
"Wow," Jared says. "3045, like the year?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Shit. Can I see that?"  
  
Jensen shrugs. "Why not? I don't have anywhere to be." He turns around to look at Jared, starting to think maybe he's crazy like Jensen is. "You don't want to go back to when you came from?"  
  
"I'm a paralegal and I'm not going to law school. The only friends I hang out with are the ones I can't get rid of from college, if I even have time to see them after work. I'm making a ton of money, but it's not a lot of fun." Jared looks away, his smile half-hearted. "I'd much rather wander the skies and the annals of time than go back to that." He shrugs. "Besides, won't it be waiting if I do want to go back?"  
  
"Sure," Jensen says, "but you'll be so different it won't be like popping back into the same moment. You'll be older. Time still exists— we're not unborn here just because we've dropped in decades before either of us was born. You have to be careful."  
  
"Can I see my parents at Christmas?" Jared asks.  
  
"If we just keep track of what year it ought to be when you stop by."  
  
Jared's grinning again, the excitement of the situation lighting him up from inside. Jensen can't help smiling back. "All right," Jared says. "I can be like your sidekick."  
  
Jensen's never had a partner before. He's never had to share his space. And now he's about to allow a man he's known for less than 24 hours infiltrate his every moment. Well, if it doesn't work out, he can always take Jared back again.  
  
He's in the middle of extending his hand for Jared to shake on it and seal the deal when Jared cries out and Jensen gets socked right in the jaw.  
  
"I got 'im!" a voice yells from the place Jensen was standing a second ago before he got knocked to the ground. "'Ere, boys!"  
  
Jensen looks up, rubbing his face, and doesn't recognize the man looming over him. Jared has taken a step back in surprise, but now he's rearing forwards again to push the man away from Jensen. His hands are huge on the guy's chest, and Jensen takes a moment to be impressed at Jensen defending his honor. Even if he does want to punch the guy himself.  
  
He grabs Jared's proffered hand and pulls himself to his feet. The man glares at them both, his teeth bared, and Jared nudges Jensen behind him. Jensen ought to feel affronted, being shunted aside like a damsel in distress, but his face really hurts. This is just Jared earning his keep.  
  
"What the fuck, man?" Jared demands, puffing up his chest and getting in the guy's face. Jared's is much taller than him, and his shoulders are huge. The guy cringes, trying to angle himself around Jared to get at Jensen, but Jared doesn't let him pass.  
  
"He's a thief and a liar," the man says, pointing at Jensen.  
  
"Hey!" Jensen says. "Watch who you're calling a thief, you little shit."  
  
"Easy," Jared says, putting a hand out to calm him. Fuck him; Jensen's no thief. He pays for what he takes, when he takes it. He puts in an honest day's work, when work needs to be done. This asshole has no right to be calling him a thief.  
  
"You stole the carpet," the guy insists, "and we were sent to retrieve it." He glances at Jared, nervous, and then glares at Jensen, defiant. "So if you don't want any trouble, you'll hand it right over."  
  
"Carpet? What the hell would I want a carpet for?"  
  
"The gold thread," the guy says, "and the fame. Who knows what thieves like you want?"  
  
"I didn't steal a carpet," Jensen tells Jared.  
  
"I believe you," Jared says. "Who wants a carpet?"  
  
"It is the most valuable carpet in all of the Arabia!" the man cries. "You took it from under the prince's nose, two weeks ago, in 1047!"  
  
Jensen snorts. "Two weeks ago I was in Prague, in 1631, thank you very much. I've never been to Arabia."  
  
"Lies!"  
  
"Enough," Jared thunders, and with both hands he shoves the guy out of his way and flat onto his back. The crowd that has gathered around them as they've argued tries to look busy in the face of Jared's wrath, and lets Jared lead Jensen roughly away by the elbow. The man is scrambling to his feet and howling, "After him!" and Jared suddenly breaks into a run.  
  
Jensen sprints after him, clearing the outer ring of curious spectators as the man behind them hollers for assistance. They'll have ten thugs on their tails if they're not careful. They should split up.  
  
But Jared is fast, faster than Jensen expected him to be, and he's not stupid either. He changes direction a few times, darting between tents and down little narrow pseudo-alleys created by the marketplace, losing them in the rabble and activity. A couple of times he looks over his shoulder for Jensen, and Jensen hollers, "Still here!"  
  
They've been running for what feels like forever but has to only be five minutes— and Jensen knows what it is to misappropriate time— when Jared slows to a jog and then to a walk, turning and looking around behind him. He's breathing hard, chest rising and falling fast, and there's sweat shining at his temples. He's also grinning like a loon, which makes Jensen laugh.  
  
"I swear," Jensen says, panting, "I've never been to Arabia."  
  
"I think it's time you went," Jared says. "That sounded like a nice carpet. Your bedroom could use an accent piece."  
  
"I don't think I've ever needed an accent piece," Jensen says. He looks around, trying to get their bearings. They're a little ways from the aerial parking lot, but they can get back there in ten minutes. They need to get back before whoever it is whose rug he stole finds the balloon. "This way," he says.  
  
It is about ten minutes before they reach the edge of the marketplace. Jensen takes a flyer that announces when and where the next one will be, and then they have to wander for a bit while Jensen remembers where he parked the damn thing. He keeps looking over his shoulder for their pursuers, but the danger seems to have passed.  
  
Jared spots it before Jensen does, and Jensen unlocks the front door. The sand is sitting in the entrance, all twenty bags of it, glowing faintly. Jensen needs to refill the sand distributor.  
  
"Are you sure this is okay?" Jared asks, once they're safely inside. The interior of the living space is dim, and Jensen has to peer to get a good look at his face.  
  
"Yeah," he says. "I'm sure. I've always wanted a sidekick."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"No," Jensen admits, "but it sure sounds good now. I would'a got the shit kicked out of me."  
  
Jared ducks his head. "Naw, you can handle yourself. You're fast."  
  
"Likewise."  
  
They stare at one another for another long moment. Jensen's heart is no longer pounding from the run, but he can still feel the adrenaline in his fingertips.  
  
"You know what?" he says. "I think I do need an accent piece. What do you say?"  
  
"The Dark Ages sound interesting," Jared says, grinning.  
  
"Amen. After you." Jensen follows him up the winding stairs to the cockpit. Jared steps aside to let him get to the wheel.  
  
"We should get going," Jared says, peering out the glass. "I think your stalker's figured out our plan."  
  
"To steal the rug?"  
  
"To leave the parking lot."  
  
Jensen spots the man who punched him in the eye scanning the gravel lot for Jensen. "Yup, time to go." His eye is swelling up, and his whole cheek aches. He'll have a spectacular bruise in the morning if he's lucky. All the better to intimidate people. Maybe they'll take their time getting to 1047 to let the swelling go down.  
  
The balloon takes a little heating to get the envelope inflated to full capacity again, and Jared paces the cockpit nervously, keeping an eye on their pursuers.  
  
"They're not going to spot us," Jensen promises him, watching the power gauge. The sand sitting downstairs is adding weight to the balloon, but since he hasn't refilled the distributor it doesn't have the power to get them off the ground and out of there as quickly as it usually does. Jensen can practically feel it dragging.   
  
Jared says, "I think they saw the balloon."  
  
"What?" Jensen nudges the transistor and dials back the years. "No way, there's like a hundred balloons parked here."  
  
"Yours is the only one that looks like a phone booth."  
  
"God damn it." Jensen looks up from the panel, and sees the man in question heading for them with determination. He's about three rows away— if they can just clear the ground they'll be good. He turns up the transistor again and urges the heater hotter. He can hear the flames roaring above his head, above the cockpit, and the steel ropes of the basket start to vibrate as the balloon lifts. The man has three thugs with him, all of them carrying heavy bats. One of them has a pistol. Fuck. If they shoot the balloon, he and Jared might still be able to get off the ground, but he'll have to repair the envelope before they start to move through time.  
  
"I can go fight 'em off," Jared offers.  
  
"No, don't be stupid," Jensen says. "You'll get your ass kicked."  
  
"I took karate when I was a kid."  
  
Jensen snorts. "So you'll make those funny noises and hand chopping motions, and then you'll get your ass kicked."  
  
"Fair point," Jared says, "also they have weapons."  
  
The basket and its abundance of cargo— Jensen, Jared, the cockpit, the apartment, and all the sand— finally shifts as the balloon begins to lift. The thugs are in the next row, and they start to run, shouting. Jared makes a rude gesture out the window as the balloon clears the lowest row of steam-powered motorcycles, and then lets out a whoop as it rises out of reach. Jensen keeps his eyes on the dials— the heat is up high and the transistor is at full power— but he can't help grinning in triumph. That's what they get for tipping him off about the rug and punching him in the face.  
  
He glances at Jared after a minute or two, when the balloon has risen above the Thames and the tops of the tallest buildings, and has caught a gust of wind headed downriver. Jared is leaning against the railing of the stairs and looking at him, his arms and ankles crossed. His smile has relaxed, and now it's just a soft smirk at the corners of his mouth. His eyes are warm with affection. Jensen hasn't known him for 24 hours, but he'd bet money on this partnership being a success.  
  
"Does your face hurt?" Jared asks, pushing off the railing and reaching out to touch the sorest place on Jensen's cheek. Jensen winces, and Jared jerks his hand back.  
  
"Yeah," Jensen admits. "There's ice downstairs, if you wanna."  
  
"Sure," Jared says, reaching again and this time touching the side of Jensen's neck, drawing his fingertips down Jensen's collarbone. Jensen leans into it, and Jared grins. "I'll be right back."  
  
He disappears down the stairs, whistling to himself, and Jensen turns slowly back to the control panel. Okay, yes, it's unusual, but it just might work.


End file.
